On a bicycle ride recently on a country road I saw a man stealing someone’s lilac blooms. He stopped his red pickup, clipped a few blooms, and drove off.

This wasn’t the first roadside larceny I have witnessed. When I lived in Connecticut, I saw men pull their trucks into wooded areas and steal field stones from historic stone walls. I once yelled “not yours” to the stone thief but wasn’t brave enough to stop.

When I saw Red Pickup Guy making off with his lilac loot, I thought about standing up for private property. One reason I didn’t — besides that the guy was pretty big — is that I am a hypocrite on this issue. My brother and I had carried out similar capers when I was about 10 years old. My Grandfather Borrelle was the brains of the gang and we were the muscle. Grandpa’s target was dandelions.

We would drive along rural roads and stop the car where he saw a cache. Sometimes it was someone’s lawn. Other times it was just a rural roadside, a highway shoulder, or even a cemetery.

He directed Ken and me to the trunk of the car where we would find a cardboard box and forked weeding tool. Our instructions were to harvest the juiciest dandelions we could find. His only admonition was not to take any that had bloomed into a yellow flower.

We had no idea what we were doing; we just wanted to fill the darn box with something green before one of our friends saw us. When we were finished, Ken and I would put the box of “weeds” in the trunk. Then we quickly hopped in the back seat and slid down low so no one could see us from outside. Grandpa drove the slowest get-away car in history; he always went 10 or 20 miles per hour below the speed limit. It was excruciating.

Dandelions were not the only target for our gang. We would drive to a local gravel business and use a dust pan and a cardboard box (Grandpa had an unending supply for some reason), to take small stones for grandpa’s yard. We’d also head to Keeler’s dairy farm on Spook Rock Road and, with the same dust pan and box, collect dried cow manure for his garden.

It was dandelions he prized most. Grandpa would clean them and season them with oil and vinegar. He would serve them at lunch or dinner to my parents, who devoured this spring treat. Ken and I turned up our noses at them, largely because we knew where they came from.

An immigrant who ran a billiard shop, Grandpa worked hard for every nickel. He was shrewd and knew how to play the angles, and he seemed to consider anything that was in public view to be his for the taking.

We were always successful – no one ever chased us away from their homes or business. To this day, the Dandelion Thieves have a clean record.

My wife has been asking me what I want for Christmas. I don’t really need anything but when I walked past the Hudson Post Office recently, I thought of a few things.

My sister, brother and I grew up almost next door to the post office, which sits on the corner of South Fourth and Union streets. For young kids in the “go-out-and play” era, the post office and the Columbia County Courthouse across the street were our playgrounds.

The Post Office looks exactly the same as it did in the mid-1960s. Its interior still smells of paper and glue. Your footsteps reverberate across the terrazzo and marble floor and your voice echos up to the high ceiling. Outside, the Classic Revival architecture with columns (the building was added to the National Register of Historic Places in 1998) gives a stately look.

In other words, it was a perfect place to run through to see if you’d get caught, which we usually did. When we were escorted out, we’d sit on the cool granite steps on the Union Street entrance and watch people come and go. It was there that we learned of great scientific advances from a neighborhood girl.

I won’t name this person because I don’t know if she still lives in the area. She was several years older than my siblings and I (we were five, six and eight). She had a reputation as being tough — and she was. When she saw us on the steps she'd join us, which made us nervous until she began telling amazing lies.

We didn’t know she was lying. To us, she was an oracle opening our eyes to wonders unknown. She declared that there were socks that could make you fly, sneakers that had rockets to make you super fast, and underwear that would make you invisible. She had many more stories of mind-blowing space-age technologies. Every time we asked where her flying socks were, she said she had just checked, and they would arrive at the post office next week.

I can’t remember the face of the person telling these tales but man, I remember those flying socks. In my five-year-old mind, I imagined them as having little wings on the ankles, like Mercury. I never questioned our truth teller why someone would make flying socks instead of, say, a flying shirt, which seemed easier to control in flight. I just knew it was going to be very cool to get a pair and fly over Hudson.

We asked our parents to buy us these futuristic devices. I can’t remember their response but it was probably something like “stay away from her.”

What motivated Flying Sock Girl to tell us these stories rather than speaking to us with her fists, as she did with others? Maybe it was the new U.S. space program or that the Jetsons were on prime time TV. Still, this wasn’t your typical neighborhood bully script.

Today, whenever I see those post office steps, I recall her fanciful tales. So I am asking my wife for a pair of flying socks for Christmas. More than 50 years after I first heard of them, they have to be a real thing, right? My size is large. Red would be nice but I'll take them in whatever color they have.

Editor’s Note: This is the first guest blog for Spokesman. It is about the brilliant work of the teenagers from Stoneman Douglas High School. It was written by Jeff DeMarrais, a former colleague and a fellow member of the Arthur W. Page Society. It first appeared on the Page website.

By Jeff DeMarrais

Yesterday, I met my heroes. For those of you who have known me throughout my life and career, it might surprise you that it took 47 years to say that.

These five leaders are among the voices who rose up in the aftermath of the Parkland, FL, shootings on Valentine’s Day, 2018. They are or were students at Stoneman Douglas High School.

And today, of all days, they deserve to be heard.

This group of teenagers, given all they have gone through – the initial act of violence, the threats upon their lives for speaking out, the disruption of the “normal” American high school experience, the simple act of having to grow up in the harsh spotlight of instant fame – had a single message.

Vote.

They shied away from rhetoric, cynicism, vitriol, partisan attacks or even the quintessential teen reaction to most any topic, “Do I have to do this NOW?” and wanted a room full of adults to help them carry a simple message forward. Since today is National Voter Registration Day there is no better time to share their message.

In a world where they have absolutely every right to feel outraged, hopeless, denied their final years of their childhood, this group and others in the March For Our Lives movement have made an extremely mature choice. And it is a choice that does not exempt them from feeling, after watching their classmates and friends gunned down in cold blood, all the emotions to which they they are entitled.

Today’s politically charged environment – both online and in the real world – does not lend a positive, credible platform to anyone interested in advancing the argument to “take away” American citizens rights (or, in other words, questioning the constitutionality of the Second Amendment). That battle has been argued among U.S. citizens and legislators for decades with no real progress made.

But Delaney, Sofie, Casey, Sari, Brendan and many of their other colleagues have sparked a movement to empower Americans to use one of our most sacred, yet underused, rights. They want you to vote.

Register now. Be heard. Take part in the conversation. Abandon the echo chamber of online rage and talk to real humans who should represent your interests at the local, state and federal levels.

Is this a politically charged wish? Shouldn’t every 18+ year old U.S. citizen freely flex this right to support our democracy? How can there possibly be resistance to this idea?

Since the drafting of the United States Constitution, our government has had to pass five(!) Amendments to enfranchise all of our adult citizens with the right to have their voices heard at the voting booth (those are Amendments XV, XVII, XIX, XXIII, XXIV and XXVI for our political science fans).

For the last 148 years, we have been refining the guidelines that permit voting in U.S. elections. So why is it so hard? And why do these five Parkland residents face such agitated assault against their simple message, “go vote”?

Delving just one layer below that question can lead to a politicized morass which, frankly, I could debate with gusto but will add very little value to the discourse and not achieve the goal which these survivors have set before us. So many people are engaging in social media – Twitter in particular – to vent, opine and muddy the waters of a really simple act of patriotism.

I’m going to go home today and see my kids and share your stories and wisdom with them. Those are two people to whom I can explain how – as neighbors of Sandy Hook in Newtown, CT – we can do something that matters, something that extends beyond rhetoric, slogans and clever posters and t-shirts.

Today, I’m going to explain to my teenage boys why voting matters. They’re a few years away from being able to do so, but I want them to vote as badly as they want to have a car or go to college.

Sofie, Casey, Sari, Brendan, Delaney: You guys are my heroes.

And I’m going to tell my sons all about you too.

Thank you for what you’re doing for this country, and you may always feel empowered to use your voices to drive positive change.

Register to vote. Here’s the national campaign to register. Share this, shout it from the rooftops, whisper it to your friends. By any means, make this a necessary stop in your network’s day today:

A debate has broken out recently that sounds like lovers who have broken up and tearfully proclaim they don’t need the other anymore. Only in this case it's corporate communicators and business journalists.

This lover’s quarrel was brought to life recently with a column in the Washington Post by Steve Pearlstein, “The Death of Business Reporting.” A long-time business journalist, Steve laments the demise of informed and experienced corporate media relations professionals. If you are in PR give it a read; it’s an important piece.

I talked recently to several people on the state of this relationship. A very good journalist told me: “I don’t really need them (communicators), do I? There are other ways to get what I need.” And a senior corporate media relations person told me: “I don’t trust them (journalists) and I don’t need them.”

Both sides have a point. Communication pros have numerous social media platforms through which to tell their organization’s story. Journalists, in an age of “transparency,” have easier and more widespread access to data and sources than ever before.

Regardless of your point of view, a great media relations professional can make a material difference to an enterprise in its reputation and its commercial success. I know this is true because I worked with Rick Kennedy of GE Aviation, the best media person I ever met.

Rick retired recently after 30 years at GE’s jet engine business. He is smart, funny, and, at times, iconoclastic. He loves jazz, blues, baseball, Elvis, and his hometown of Cincinnati, where GE’s jet engine business is headquartered. He’s a former journalist and a bit of a character, which I will get to below. Above all, he is an honest and effective information broker in a high-risk, high-profile business.

Why was Rick so good and so good for his business? First, he knows engines – how they work, how the government regulates them, and how the media covers them.

He didn’t have to check with someone on technical specs, production history, or business numbers. He was the expert. I remember a master class he gave me in why some of GE’s engines were having icing problems at higher altitudes. This had become an investor concern for GE. Rick’s calm, matter-of-fact explanations to reporters was a huge reason why the issue didn't mushroom.

Second, he is naturally, purposefully and sometimes painfully honest. He’d fight like hell with reporters who he thought were being unfair, but with those he trusted, he’d give them the facts, even if they weren’t great for GE. He was building relationships and trust for the long haul.

More than once, Rick pulled me back from the precipice. “Don’t say that, Gary. That’s bullshit,” he’d advise me about a suggested strategy that might win a short-term battle but could cause us to lose the war.

For example, a few years ago when GE was in a very public and heated debate in Washington over funding for a military jet engine, I wanted to go for the jugular with the Pentagon. Rick talked me down like a calm air traffic controller. I think Rick knew we were going to lose this fight and he wanted to protect GE Aviation’s relationships in the Department of Defense for the next one.

Third, Rick is a great – no, a master -- storyteller. He loves the technology of aviation but also has a real affection for the history and lore surrounding it. Watch this video Rick did about the opening of GE’s new advanced composites plant in Batesville, Mississippi, or this one on the history of GE’s engines and you'll see what I mean. Charles Kuralt had nothing on Rick.

Finally, he may be the best crisis communications leader around. As his terrific successor Perry Bradley told me, “Crisis is inevitable when you have an installed base of 37,000 commercial engines holding aloft some 300,000 people at any given time.” Rick’s deep domain knowledge, understanding of what the media wants in the high-intensity moments after an incident, and the trust he earned kept many situations from getting out of hand. No self-inflected wounds from Rick.

Rick’s value to his business was recognized a few years ago by leadership -- "Rick takes big, visible swings" they said in presenting him with the Overall Performance Award. They knew he was more than just the “PR guy;” he was a strategic counselor who, by protecting the Aviation's reputation, made it possible for the engineers, commercial teams, and executives to do their jobs. Rick also recently won the Lyman Award from the Aerospace Industries Association, which honors distinguished career-long achievements in aviation journalism or public relations.

At air shows, engine launches or analyst meetings -- and after business hours -- Rick never tired of talking aviation, playing a few songs on the piano or giving reporters local history lessons. Once, on the eve GE’s annual meeting of share owners in Cincinnati, Rick took a few reporters to a local cemetery to show them graves of local music greats.

When I saw him the next morning, Rick looked a little rough around the edges. Being a corporate guy, I asked him how the discussion about GE went with the reporters. He replied, “I have no idea, but they now know a hell of a lot about that graveyard.”

There has been a lot of attention paid to Oakdale Lake in Hudson, NY, recently but nobody has mentioned cream cheese and grape jelly sandwiches with sand. I will do that here.

Oakdale is a beautiful five-acre, spring-fed lake with a small sand beach and an old-time beach house. Nearly 100 years old, this public park has been neglected in recent years and hence gained the nickname “Croakdale" (at least in our house). Nonetheless, it is a diamond in the rough, complete with surrounding trails and a small playground.

My mother would take us to Oakdale for swimming lessons starting when we were about six years old. You started in beginners. If you passed that two-week class, you went on to advanced beginners. I never made it that far. I am the world’s worst swimmer.

Here are my excuses. The green waters of Oakdale at 8 a.m. were frigid, even in July. Getting in beyond your knees caused full-body shivering while you waited for other victims to practice “blow bubbles, listen to the fish” breathing exercises. Also, “bobbing” up in down in the water to practice breathing seemed more like practicing drowning. I refused to release my grip on the dock. Finally, I was preoccupied about how brilliantly white my skin was. It was a distraction for everyone, including me.

Recognizing that I was an aquatic failure, the instructors would take me to the shallows and try to teach me to doggy paddle. I got pretty good at it and I decided it was the only skill I needed for water survival. When the instructors tried to teach me the crawl, I would pretend I was doing it by putting my hands on the bottom of the lake and pulling myself along. No one was fooled.

A postcard of Oakdale from the 1960s.

At the end of the two weeks, it was suggested that I repeat beginners, while my brother Ken was promoted to advanced beginners. This verdict on my swimming abilities was delivered several more times and, over the years, I became perhaps the oldest student ever in the beginners class at Oakdale.

My ineptitude was all the more humiliating because my sister Valerie was a great swimmer and loved Oakdale. She became a volunteer instructor at age 12 and later, a lifeguard. She was following in the footsteps of our Aunt Bitsy (Elizabeth) Sheffer, who was a lifeguard and waterfront director for many years and part of a staff of many of the coolest kids in town – my cousin Susan Borrelle, Famous Tillman, Tim Carr, Susan Nero, Giffy Whitbeck, Paula Cook, Jimmy Warfield, Harvey McWhorter and many others.

Not all my memories of Oakdale were bad. After the day’s lessons were over, my mother would return to the beach with lunch for the Sheffer kids. We were sometimes joined by her best friend, Fran Brady, and daughter, Sue. The main course was cream cheese and grape jelly sandwiches with an emphasis on “sand.” They were wrapped individually in aluminum foil and by the time we unwrapped them with our wet fingers the sandwiches included a sprinkling of beach sand, which provided a nice crunchy quality. Not exactly Michael Phelps’ diet but it energized us for the afternoon.

My Aunt Bitsy, right, getting ready to dive under.

We’d stay at the beach for a few hours. My hydrophobia would vanish after lessons were over and, while I didn’t go in the water above my chest, I had a great time with my family and friends.

Despite the painful memory of my failures there, I am glad to see Oakdale has new friends. I hope they will have ice skating again on the lake. I was much better at this sport and was thrilled when the city put out a green flag near the beach house door to indicate the ice was safe for skating. One night after skating for a while, Val, Ken and I decided to walk home – about a mile – in our skates. This did not impress our mother.

Oakdale is a little thread-bare and deserves some love. Maybe my contribution will be a food truck that I’ll bring to Oakdale. I’ll call it The Sand Man, featuring cream cheese and jelly on white bread. After all, I’m probably 20 percent sand after those gritty summer lunches at our fabulous little beach.

I figure a heat wave like the one we are having in Hudson is a good time to tell you why I refused to wear shorts in the summer when I was in my early teens.

I have told you in the past that my legs are the color of young polar bears. They were shockingly white when I was young. For gym in elementary school, we wore yellow John L. Edwards Elementary School uniform shorts and tops. This was not a good color combination for me -- I looked like a fried egg.

I decided not to endure this embarrassing exposure when I didn’t have to. When summer vacation came around when I was 10 or 11, I made a decision that shorts weren’t cool in a fashion sense. Hey, active guys like me, just can't wear them.

I made up what I thought were completely rational reasons for my decision. After all, what if you had to slide in a game of “Run the Bases?” You’d leave a foot of skin on the ground. Or what if you were playing touch football in the street, can you imagine the road rash you’d suffer if you had to slide for a catch?

Looking back, I admire my creativity in covering up my vanity. I was so persuasive, in fact, that my cousin Mike also adopted a no-shorts policy.

My long pants, therefore, showed up in the most unusual places. I played the youth tennis tournament in Hudson in long pants. I played in the Columbia County tennis tournament for adults in long pants (that asphalt was dangerously rough!). Or in 90-degree-plus weather at picnics, parties, and at Oakdale playground. Sure your pants would get caught in your bicycle chain occasionally, but the grease stains on them made them -- and you -- look even cooler.

Shorts are cool.

My secret was, of course, that I was very uncomfortable because of my fashion manifesto. Combine murderously hot weather with a new pair of stiff jeans, and you have a serious chafing problem. But I would not admit this to anyone, let alone my brother, Ken, or my sisters, or my mother, who would roll her eyes at my no shorts declaration.

I even wore long pants to “field day” in the eighth grade, where I ran the 600-yard race on a very hot day. The entire eighth grade would be watching and there was no way I was going to be a pale horse galloping around the track.

There were exceptions. Like when we went to a party at Pete Leggieri’s backyard pool and I had to wear a bathing suit. My entrances and exits of the pool were lightning quick, particularly if there were girls my age around.

My summertime coverup only made things worse when I went back to school in the fall and had to reveal my still pale limbs in co-ed gym sessions for square dancing or archery. I would hide behind the guys so the girls couldn’t see me.

I guess I finally gave in around the time I went to high school and my legs got a little tan from football and baseball practice. Fashion changes all the time and, again, I was being practical about it. Hey, what if I fell out of a boat and I have to swim to safety? Long pants would only drag me down.

I was eight years old and one day when I got home from school, my mother told me I did not make Little League after a disastrous tryout. I crawled under my bed and cried.

I stayed there until my father came home from work. The man who was one of the best baseball players our hometown of Hudson ever produced. The man who was still feared in the city softball league when he came to the plate. The man who played catch with me and taught me how to hold a bat.

My father coaxed me out from under the bed. I was sobbing at this point and gulping for air. It was the second worst day of my young life. The worst was that following day when I got off the bus at John L. Edwards Elementary School and I heard classmates talking about what team they were on. “Elks." "Moose." "Stags." "Antlers." "Fawns” The words felt punches to my solar plexus.

I worshipped baseball and I was good enough to play in Little League, which at the time was for boys aged 8-12. But I froze during the tryouts. When one of my early throws from shortstop didn’t reach first base, I became self-conscious and nervous. A grounder went under my mitt. I whiffed on every pitch thrown to me, even when it was lobbed softly by a coach trying to help me out.

As a result, that year I played in “Park League," which pitted Hudson's playgrounds – Oakdale, Franklin Park, Academy Hill, Charles Williams, St. Mary’s – against each other. We were the same age as the Little Leaguers, but we played in the morning and we weren’t as good.

Few people came to watch and that lowered the pressure I placed on myself. My coach told me I was good enough for Little League and that he couldn’t understand why I hadn’t been picked. I knew but didn’t say.

When I was nine, I got a break. The Hudson Elks Little League added a team, the Bucks. My father would be the manager. That meant I would be picked by him no matter how terrible I did in tryouts.

I was a Little Leaguer but my nervousness continued to plague me. Plus, it didn’t help my confidence when the best and fastest Little League pitcher I ever saw, 12-year-old Danny Chidester, hit me on the thumb with a pitch. I cried. My thumbnail turned bright purple and fell off a few weeks later.

At home I had no problem catching the grounders my father or cousin Mike threw to me. But in a game, they went right through my legs. I was a human wicket. At the plate, I batted last and either struck out or got a walk.

Then my Dad did something he never explained to me: he switched me from an infielder to catcher. I loved it. I was involved in every pitch. I loved being the guy with the mask, caked in sweat and dirt. It made me focus so intently that I forgot my nervousness. I still couldn’t hit but I was sure-handed behind the plate.

By the time I was 12, my team had the fastest pitcher in the league, Rich Deters. My confidence improved and I began to hit. I made the all-star team and we nearly won the league.

When we lost a tie-breaking game to the other top team, the season was over. Walking up the steep hill to the Elks Club after the game with my father and my teammate Jay Qualtieri, I began sobbing. But this time it was not because I was sad and embarrassed or even that we lost. It was because I’d worked hard to overcome my fears. Now, the games were over before I wanted them to be.

My baseball jitters would return in Babe Ruth, high school and American Legion play. My mind wouldn’t let my body win. But during that one amazing year in Little League, I was whole.

I am not a historian but I gave a history talk recently at my local library about a hotel that was torn down nearly 50 years ago. Sounds like a fun evening, right?

It was for me. I like to tell stories, particularly about people and places that have stuck to my soul. The General Worth Hotel in Hudson, NY, was one of those places.

I called my talk “A Community of Worth” because of the remarkable communities that surrounded the hotel, that lived nearby or worked there, and, ultimately, the broader Hudson community that fractured over its fate, resulting in its demise.

My story was not about the heated debate in 1969 on whether to save the hotel, although that is part of it. It is about how this place intersected with the lives of people on and around the 300 block of Warren Street. This included my mother's family and their life-long friends.

It was a neighborhood of working-class people, many descendants of Italian immigrants, who celebrated, gossiped, laughed, and mourned together. Many shared the same church, played the same numbers every day, and visited the same bars. The got by by running small shops, bartending and waitressing, or taking in work, such as sewing. The Worth was smack in the middle of their block and their lives, and they watched the world come and go through its doors.

My interest in the hotel's story started with the photo above of my parents outside the Worth on their wedding day, May 26, 1956. It always looked like a Hollywood movie set to me. That’s my mom, Rachel Borrelle Sheffer, in the wedding gown, with her arm over the shoulders of her mother, Anna Borrelle. My dad, Kenneth “Red” Sheffer, is trying to behave in front of his new mother-in-law. My parents had just been married around the corner at Mt. Carmel Church and were headed to their reception at the hotel.

My mother grew up two doors from the Worth in an apartment above a pool hall and soda fountain run by my grandfather, Frank Borrelle. My parents met in the Paramount Grill, which was three doors from the Worth.

There were other family connections to the Worth. My grandfather, Elmer Sheffer, was president of the Common Council and a mayoral candidate during the debate about the future of the vacant hotel. He expressed hope that some deep-pocketed savior would appear, but ultimately sided with those who feared a fire or wanted the site redeveloped.

I wrote a story about the Worth for the local newspaper in 1985 but my first experience with it came when I was 7 or 8. My brother and sister and I would walk back from Mass at Mt. Carmel on Sundays. Sometimes we stopped to run through the empty hallways. That was until my grandmother found out what we were doing and told us to stay away. We did because we were afraid of her.

Gore Vidal, center, and Eleanor Roosevelt to his left at a political dinner at the Worth in 1959

I told you I am not a historian but some history is in order for you to understand this story.

The hotel, built in 1837, was a shining and rare example of Greek Revival architecture. It endured many owners and renovations but retained it majestic presence to its dying days (it was placed on the National Register of Historic Places just before being torn down). It had 100 rooms and a ballroom that seated 300 people. Every civic group of every kind held its events there and its comfortable lobby was filled with salesmen, brides, celebrities, transients, and party-goers.

Waitresses in the 1950s

Its financial health rose and fell with advances in transportation and the economy of Hudson. In its early days, stage coaches stopped there on the trip from New York City to Albany. This held true for early automobile era, but when cars became more reliable, their passengers no longer needed a room and a meal at the Worth.

The best part of the story was learning about the people who worked there or lived nearby. For example, one waitress said that when Eleanor Roosevelt visited for a political event in the 1950s, the waitresses stole and kept the silverware Mrs. Roosevelt used at dinner.

Business tapered off in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s. The building deteriorated. In 1965, after 128 years of hoteling, the Worth closed and four years later it was demolished by the city.

I am still drawn to the hotel's story and hope to learn more about it. At this point in my life, I know a good story when I see or hear it. This one is worth telling.

This was a rare time the Sheffer family held its own picnic at Fatso's, rather than with a group of families. From left are my step-grandfather Al Rivenburgh, my father, my mother, my brother Ken, my sister Val, my Grandma Gladys ("Bonnie") Rivenburgh, me, and my Grandma Borrelle.

When I was young and Memorial Day was approaching, I would constantly dial 828-1111 -- WHUC's local weather phone -- to see if the holiday would be warm and sunny. Hot and dry weather meant we could swim and play softball during our picnic at glorious Fatso's.

Yes, Fasto's. A small grassy grove that hugged the Claverack Creek about 10 miles from our house in Hudson. Not that we had any idea back then where it was; we just knew it was a picnicking paradise. Fatso's was where summer started for my family and friends.

It was the first real outdoor event of the year in which we got to run around in shorts, drink unreasonable amounts of ice-cold soda, and inhale the sweet smells of burning charcoal, hot dogs and hamburgers.

About 10 families descended on Fatso's for the picnic, and for a similar party on July 4th. As I remember, the men would arrive early to mow the grass and set up the picnic tables. They also put the beer kegs into barrels filled with ice so it wasn't foamy when the party started. The only way they could tell was to taste a few. Same with the raw clams they cleaned and iced. Yes, these men were selfless party preppers.

All of this had to be unloaded and moved to your family's table, which we covered with a paper tablecloth. On windy days, soda cans, jars of pickles, and other items had to be placed strategically on the table to keep the tablecloth from blowing into the creek.

When that work was done, the kids were free to roam the grove and return only when lunch was ready. We quickly raided the Shop Rite sodas -- grape was great -- then tossed the empty cans in the creek and threw rocks at them as the current carried them away. It's okay, this was before the first Earth Day.

Then we headed to the bridge that carried State Route 9H/23 over the creek. The fun there usually consisted of throwing rocks at the underside of the bridge. It made a great sonar-like ping sound. Then there were games of "run the bases," Jarts (before they were outlawed), and swimming.

The biggest game was bocce, the perfect game for the grove. The men roamed the grounds as they played. There were shouts of "red's in, red's in" "that's two for the good guys." and, from my father, "hey, Gary, get me a beer." If it was hard to tell by eye whose ball was closer to the pallino, Lee Brady would say "let's get a meas" -- meaning measurement -- and someone would produce a tape measure to resolve the dispute. I have vivid memories of Nucci Pierro with a big cigar in his mouth tossing a bocce ball -- he was a high arc guy and the heavy bocce balls landed like incoming artillery.

As much fun as the kids had, I think the adults had more. These were life-long friends and a day at Fatso's was care-free fun. It was the American dream in many ways, to enjoy a beautiful place, a cookout, clams, beer, and lots of laughter. When they were together, these people knew how to have a good time.

The grove today is overgrown. This photo was taken from bridge over 9H/23. The picnic area was at the top right of this photo.

Dinner, as I remember, was less of an event than lunch. My mom would say to my father, "Red, put some hot dogs on the grill" if one of us kids expressed any hunger. I never knew how the day was planned -- who knew who was bringing what food or drinks. It just seemed to happen.

In reality, it was the women who put it all together. They took care of the kids and the food, and spent their free time chatting and laughing, sometimes at the men.

Near dusk, we played softball, with the men batting left-handed. Sweatshirts came on, bug spray was applied, and, when it got dark, there were a few fireworks over the creek and many sparklers (with someone usually ending up with a burned finger). Marshmallows were browned and blackened over a fire.

Tired and sun-reddened, we were sad when we had to pack the car and head home. But we had the whole summer ahead of us and another trip to Fatso's in just over a month.

Before I end, a request about Fatso, the man. His tavern -- Fatso's -- sat just south of the grove and creek. Today, it is the Coyote Flaco restaurant. He was was a mysterious and somewhat scary figure to me because I never met him.

Being at Fatso’s was something both kids and parents enjoyed together and agreed it was a good thing. That kind of harmony is rare. So thank you Fatso, and perhaps someone reading this can tell me who you were.

Baseball's return every spring has been a source of joy for me since I was a boy. But lately, I feel more disengaged from the game because I no longer understand baseball statistics.

Half the fun of baseball was the ability to compare today’s players with those of decades ago based on stats like home runs, runs batted in, batting average, wins, losses, earned run average. In shorthand: HRs, RBIs, BA, W, L, and ERA. Not anymore.

Now we have bWARs, WHIP, TTO, OPS and numbers after players’ names like .432/.519/.727. I have no idea what these mean (help me Joe Sheehan!). They are being used by managers, general managers and fantasy players to drive personnel and in-game decisions.

Data analytics in baseball have led to highly effective defensive innovations but as they have risen, human judgment has receded; watch a game and you’ll see a team manager paging through a binder of stats rather than looking at the field.

The same is true of public relations, where metrics are changing and, in some cases, supplanting the “art” of our work. I remember sitting in meetings on PR/marketing campaigns listening to reports of impressions, web site visitors, reach, email open rates, and other metrics and wondering if we had made a meaningful connection – or any connection -- with anyone.

...we should use these tools to make adjustments, do a better job, and help us to set benchmarks for our goals and objectives.

In marketing, data provides insights into customer preferences and practices. For example, if 60 percent of your online customers end up seeking follow-up help from your call center, you know that something is wrong.

In public relations, however, many metrics still ladder up to the old reliables of favorability, trust and message receptivity/audience preferences that can be tested quantitatively and qualitatively. At their worst, these metrics drive a strategy to the exclusion of other factors.

Here's what I mean. Say you're a company responding to the loss of customers' personal data. What determines your plan? The number of customers who close accounts? Favorability and key words in social media? Employee feedback?

Any smart company is sure to be looking at these and other metrics. Yet, in many instances, the responses seem to be lacking.

Perhaps it is first and foremost a clear expression of the values that guided the enterprise in its decision-making. Metrics should inform your strategy but not determine it. Don’t let them get in the way of values-based actions, common sense and good judgment. Get your nose out of the binder and look at the field.

Metrics must be simple, predictive, well-defined and, to borrow a golf phrase -- “dead solid perfect” – meaning they must be as carefully scrutinized as financial numbers. They must be defendable under withering cross-examination in the C-suite.

Our profession is determined to get there. The Institute for Public Relations and its Measurement Commission have done amazing work advancing the definition, validity and value of measurement through research and collaboration. As IPR President Tina McCorkindale smartly says: “Our purpose should not be to try to prove the value of our profession or worth compared to other organizational departments…rather we should use these tools to make adjustments, do a better job, and help us to set benchmarks for our goals and objectives.”

An eastern bluebird flitted from tree to tree behind our house this week. Then a red fox scampered across a field. They were the first flashes of natural color I had seen in about five months.

This was the first full winter we had spent in Hudson in more than 30 years. My wife Barb and I decided not to do a warm-weather trip to help get through the winter, mainly because I am still recovering from a bike crash in the fall.

We also wanted to see what winter was like at our home in Livingston, just outside Hudson, New York. It wasn’t like we had lived on the equator previously; southern Connecticut has basically the same climate. But we were curious if our 232-year-old home would protect us from an upstate winter.

The house sits on the Taghkanic Creek and was a caretaker’s cottage for the grist mill on the estate of Robert Livingston. It isn’t exactly a hermetically sealed environment. The perimeter of the house is about 10 degrees colder than the interior, even with new windows and doors. One thing I discovered in this first winter was that it takes a lot of courage to get out of bed early on a sub-zero morning.

It was a long and cold winter. The bone-chilling temperatures of late December and early January receded slightly in February but cold persisted right through March. The conga line of March nor’easters was disheartening. The monochrome grayness of everything – sky, roads, landscapes – was the toughest thing to take.

A frozen swirl in the creek.

We discovered that our dog, Charlie, likes the warmth of a fire more than food. On frosty mornings, he wouldn’t leave the hearth even when we put his breakfast out for him. He’s a 10-pound dachshund and he shortened our walks because of the cold even when he was wearing his WWII aviator-style jacket. He would just look up at us like he was the only one with common sense, turn, and head back to the house.

We went through more than a face cord of wood and lots of propane to keep the little place warm. Sleep came early, much earlier than when we lived elsewhere. We churned books – me “Jack Reacher” novels and Barb bios of Katherine Graham and "Wild Bill" Donovan. We depleted the supply of watchable movies on Apple TV and Netflix. We binged “Fixer Upper" on HGTV.

So, what was the outcome of our first hibernation here? Well, I put on about 20 pounds because of my own inertia and the need for comfort food. The snow plow cracked our mail box post. We had a frozen pipe that plagued us for most of January. The heavy March snows snapped a few big tree limbs.

The best result was that we now know this is the place we want to be for many more winters. It was harsh and discouraging at times, a bit like the movie “Groundhog Day” as one chilly morning looked like the one before it. I sometimes sang Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe” when I got out of bed – Bill Murray's wakeup song in the movie.

But we felt an internal warmth from being in a home that we finally won’t have to pack up and leave. There were new and old friends. Good music at Helsinki. Excellent food. Comfortable bars and breweries. And with technology, the ability to work with clients all over the world without leaving home.

Ice ornaments on branches of a willow tree.

Every morning, I looked forward to watching two merganser ducks -- a couple apparently -- land in our creek even when it was nearly covered with ice. They’d dive for food, staying under for what seemed like minutes. When their meal was over, they floated together downstream on the current, energized for the day.

Having said all this, I am happy the sun is higher in the sky and the bluebirds are back.

Most blogs about “what I am reading” are as boring as Justin Timberlake's Super Bowl halftime performance and usually self-indulgent attempts to demonstrate your smarts. I obviously will do that in this blog but along the way I am also going to jazz things up with hilarious cultural and personal references while still making my point.

My point is you have to have a reading list. I am looking at you, communicators. We are in a business that requires eternal learning vs. let’s say, my dog Charlie who dashes to the front door barking every damn time a doorbell rings on TV. No learning.

No.

A reading list should be broad and deep, literally. Mine is stacked a foot high in my office awaiting my next long plane ride or surgery – lately, the latter being more likely. It should address the issues that continue to perplex you and others – what the hell are blockchain and cryptocurrency, and can I buy artificial intelligence for my personal use, such as figuring out the ending of the movie Interstellar?

Understanding emerging topics – even at a basic level – will make you a better communicator and leader in your organization. When I was at GE, I tried to get a basic grasp of China and India’s increasing importance in the global economy, or how additive manufacturing might disrupt industrial companies, or how changing social values could influence employee attitudes and company policies.

Part of my motivation was fear of being embarrassed. Sometimes I was. In 2008, I presented to the GE Board on the reputation risks associated with GE’s sponsorship of the Olympic Games in Beijing. There were protests against Olympic sponsors by actress Mia Farrow and others related to China’s failure to act on genocide and human rights abuses in Darfur. One protest bumper sticker said, “You Can’t Spell GEnocide Without GE.”

Yes.

This wasn’t my first Olympic reputation rodeo and I could articulate how best to handle the China issue. But then the board started asking very specific questions about the situation on the ground in Sudan. I was like a stumped spelling bee contestant: “Uhhh….could you use it in a sentence?” Luckily, the GE Foundation leader bailed me out. I was half prepared.

No one in GE was going to give me a course on Darfur. I had to educate myself on the issue and many others that confront a global company. It can be exhausting and sometimes not fun. Instead of watching GE-funded “Must Watch TV” comedy classics such as “Joey” on airplanes, I would try to get through my reading pile.

Reading lists should be diverse in their topics and source and force you out of your comfort bubble. The usual suspects such as the Wall Street Journal are important but so are Scientific American, Harvard Business Review, The Economist and Foreign Policy.

Sounds like fun, right? Well get a gander at some of the things on my list:

· “Effects of corporate online communications on attitude and trust: Experimental analysis of Twitter messages,” from the Institute for Public Relations

· “Report From the Buy Side: The Power of Intangible Factors on Investment Decisions,” by Weber Shandwick

· “The Leader’s Guide to Corporate Culture,” from the Harvard Business Review

You’re saying, “Sheffer is a gas bag. He’s not going to read all those things.” You’re right. Sometimes the topic gets moldy by the time I get to it and I move on, constantly curating the pile to try to stay current.

Nope.

Okay, sorry, you’ve had enough of this haughty and pedantic harangue but you haven’t endured anywhere near the hectoring others have suffered. At GE, I often droned on about the necessity of reading and being the most informed person in the room.

I know, that's not as fun as watching the GE/NBCUniversal comedy classic, “The Land of the Lost?” But hey, what is?

Disregard other inferior top 10 lists from the likes of The New Yorker, the New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, and even Plumbers, Gas and Steam Fitters Journal. The best "best of" list for 2017 is right here. Spokesman asked the six Sheffers to provide their best cultural experience from the year -- best book, movie, travel experience, TV show, or best story that I told (no one went for that). Below is the result, the Second Annual Sheffer Family Best of List. Artwork by Spokesman's talented daughter, Emily.

Fargo, Season 3 -- Bleak Minnesota winterscapes plus murder wouldn't seem to make for appealing TV viewing, especially for me. I prefer happier, upbeat entertainment even going so far as to avoid listening to songs in sad minor keys. But I have so enjoyed watching FX's Fargo series over the years with Gary and I was really looking forward to its third season this past year. I was not disappointed. I was drawn into the story just as I was during the first two seasons and I am hoping they come up with a fourth season. Ewan McGregor playing both Stussy brothers In Season 3 was fun to watch and I found myself rooting for Carrie Coon's police chief character, Gloria Burgle.

Springsteen’s autobio is joyously literate, emotionally wrenching when he writes about his father, and a “virtual reality” experience of the life of a self-proclaimed bar-band “f*#%ing nobody.“ You smell the sweat, hairspray and stale beer of the Jersey bars where Springsteen learned his craft, you feel the raw power of his will to make it big, and you see his brilliance as a performer and a leader. His instinctive understanding of how to mold an odd collection of ordinary people into a kick-ass band would make a great Harvard Business School case study.The story from the book that sticks with me most is about Jake Clemons, the nephew of Springsteen’s soul mate, the late great saxophonist Clarence Clemons. Springsteen invited Jake to his house to audition to replace Clarence in the E Street Band. Jake arrived an hour late and when he did, admitted he only “sort of” knew the sax solos his uncle and Springsteen had perfected. Springsteen sent him away with a Jack Welch-like tongue-lashing. “Where…do…you…think…you...are? If you don’t know, let me tell you. You are in a CITADEL OF ROCK ‘N’ ROLL. You don’t dare come in here and play this music for Bruce Springsteen without having your SHIT DOWN COLD!”Jake went away, learned the parts, and earned a seat in the band. It is debatable whether Springsteen is rock’s best front man ever, (I say “yes”) but he certainly was the best band “boss” in rock history.

The best thing I saw in 2017 were New Mexico's national parks and monuments--White Sands National Monument, Bandelier National Monument, Valles Caldera National Preserve, Tent Rocks National Monument. In early May, Emily and I rented a car, booked a couple of Air Bnbs, and roughly set out to explore this beautiful state whose stunning landscape has been cut and carved by thousands of years of thermal and volcanic activity. My historical consciousness of our home here in the U.S. has started with my grade school education of the founding our our country--but Emily and I walked through pueblos inhabited by tribes far beyond our founders' time here on this continent. A humbling experience. We swam in mineral springs, hiked up ladders through ancient dwellings, spotted cave paintings, looked for elk in a crater, hiked to the dramatic gorge where the Rio Grande meets the Red River, traveled on horseback through Georgia O'Keefe's Ghost Ranch, and explored Santa Fe's historic arts district. Seeking out the natural beauty and history of New Mexico was an incredible and expansive experience in an otherwise tough year.

My favorite thing this year was visiting my friend in Boulder, Colorado. I haven’t seen the middle of the country much. At that point Green Bay and Las Vegas were the only two places I had been in the US that weren’t in states that touched the Atlantic Ocean.

We were supposed to spend the first half of the trip going to craft breweries and eating burritos, and spend the second half hiking in Rocky Mountain National Park. There wound up being five feet of snow in May, just before we left for the park. So instead we wound up going to craft breweries and eating burritos for both halves of the vacation. I did manage to see the garden of the gods and a few other “Rockies” attractions outside of Colorado Springs. Next time I won’t visit during winter, which I now understand runs from September to June.

Tour de France is to Dad, as the New York Art Book Fair is to me. It’s a big deal! The New York Art Book Fairis the gold standard for all things art and book. It’s an annual free event, held at MoMA PS1 in Queens. PS1 is an abandoned public school building-turned art space in the late 70’s; a labyrinth of classroom-sized rooms, hallways and stairwells that will leave you feeling turned around by the end of the day. Seemingly endless numbers of publishers, presses, and independent sellers come from all corners of the world to show off their innovations in book making. Fighting through sweaty crowds in semi-well ventilated spaces sounds stressful, and can be, but feels worth it when you find that one special book. A Korean publisher was even selling a few photography books that I helped produce. Very exciting! If you get tired of books (it happens), make sure you’re with a good friend so you can take walks on the high line, pop in and out of Chelsea galleries, and eat plenty of oysters.

Old Cinemas in New York City. New York City is full of small arthouse cinemas featuring movies by some of films greatest directors. This year, as an NYU student, I had access to many of these theaters. The Russian post-apocalyptic thriller, Stalker by Tarkovsky was my favorite feature.

More seriously and importantly, the unrelenting and brazen attacks on rational thinking and the truth in 2017 have raised awareness of how essential integrity in public communication is to a successful democracy.

At this point a good blogger would cite a study from Pew Research to back up this claim. I won’t because studies have demonstrated you probably wouldn’t believe the studies anyway. Instead, I'll simply tell you what I believe is happening as a result of these attacks on the truth and how I hope our profession will mobilize to fight back.

First, my beliefs.

If you care about how public policy affects people, especially those who are vulnerable, I believe you realize it has become more acceptable for people in power to lie to get what they want.

If you care about a free and unfettered press, I believe you realize that the growth in politically motivated attacks on it are unprecedented and dangerous for journalists and for the sustainability of democracy.

If you care about rational, fact-based discourse, I believe you realize that professional phonies and provocateurs are lurking in the dark corners of the Internet with the sole purpose of deceiving you to further their own interests.

If you care about civility, I believe you realize that it is disappearing, replaced by contempt and insults.

Next, my hopes for turning these realizations will turn into action.

I hope CEOs will continue to be active on social and economic policy and human rights. I also hope they will be as publicly visible on difficult reputation issues such as tax reform, trade, and globalization as on values-based issues like immigration and diversity.

I hope the communication and journalism professions will work together on a media literacy campaign to separate real work from propaganda. I hope the technology companies whose platforms are used to spread lies and outrage will continue to help fund this effort. As The Economist wrote recently, “It would be wonderful if such a system helped wisdom and truth rise to the surface.”

I hope we will be pushed to do more by a new generation of communicators who insist on working for “good” companies that have clearly stated and admirable values and that live by them. And by communication students, who feel the same way but want us to move faster and more aggressively.

I hope more companies will adopt strategies based on public good as well as profit, and that communicators will be at the center of determining the "what" and "how."

I hope you will become part of the difficult work ahead, and help turn 2017's mendacity into 2018's honesty.

Hudson High retired an 80-year-old sports ground this month, a visually striking and distinctive field where I have lost pride, blood and tears. It feels a bit like when they tore down the old Yankee Stadium -- nostalgic for their best days and sad that it is too costly to renovate and maintain these beautiful facilities.

Unique and beautiful: The football field with the old school in the background.

The John A. Barrett Field at what is now Montgomery C. Smith Intermediate School is a bit spartan but may be one of a kind. It was completed in 1937 by the federal Public Works Administration as part of the construction of Chancellor Livingston High School. The entire project, including the magnificent three-story brick, limestone and slate school building, cost $508,674.

I visited the school last month to talk with the principal, Mark Brenneman, an energetic educator of young people in grades 3 through 5. The hair on my neck stood up when I walked in the building because its looks the same as when I was last there 44 years ago. The marble mosaic floor in the lobby and the terra cotta tiles on the hallway walls have stood up to years of use.

Outside, the grand cupola and its flanking wood railings give the building a stateliness, particularly when viewed across the expansive front lawn. Every time I see this remarkable school, I am proud that my grandfather, Elmer Sheffer, helped build it.

But it is the athletic field that sparks memories for me and my entire family. It is a classic, with overlapping football and baseball fields ringed by an triangular cinder running track with granite curbs. It has an amazing view of the Catskills to the west, which I know well because I once lost a ball in the setting sun while playing right field. The batter circled the bases. Hence the loss of pride.

Left field is backed by a steep rise of shale topped by pine, cedar and maple trees. We lived a block from the field and spent endless hours climbing the "cliffs," skinning our knees and elbows. Hence the loss of blood.

Shortly after it opened 80 years ago.

The football stands are adjacent to this hill, behind the track in dead center field. The stands are the kind of rectangular concrete and wood bench (now aluminum) structure you might see in a crowd shot in a Knute Rockne movie. On the other side of the stands are five well-maintained asphalt tennis courts where players lined up to get a court during the tennis craze of the 1970s and 1980s and when a Hudson High team that included my brother, Ken, dominated all takers.

Many great athletes have trod these fields and courts, some who have gone on to professional and collegiate renown. I am not one of them. In American Legion ball, I struck out repeatedly against a flame-throwing lefty from Saugerties, NY, who pitched briefly for the Atlanta Braves.

Having the baseball and track fields together seems ridiculously dangerous but it allowed my father to participate in two spring sports: baseball and track. He'd throw the shot put in his baseball uniform when home baseball games and track meets coincided.

The place was electric for football, particularly night games that seemed to light up the entire city. We used the shadows to try to sneak in without paying. From pickup to Pop Warner to semi-pro, the many games tore up field, denuding it of grass at mid-field. It was fun to play in the mud but I wrecked my knee on a boggy field in my senior year homecoming game and never played football for the Hudson High Bluehawks again. Hence the tears.

The semi-pro football Vikings were a gritty bunch who held their own against teams from bigger cities. The star was Bob Van Ness, a 300-pound linebacker, placekicker and quarterback -- yes quarterback. I can still hear Vikings fans singing a gospel-style cheer before a field goal try: "Big Bob is gonna' kick it now, yeah, yeah. Oh yeah, oh yeah."

Also seared in my memory is the night a bunch of local players took on the barnstorming softball troupe, "The King and His Court," featuring pitcher Eddie Feigner. Few could make contact against the King -- even when he pitched blindfolded -- so he only needed three players behind him in the field. I sensed that night that the King and his men were more worried whether any local taverns were open than winning the softball game.

And then there were non-sporting events. My parents and their friends loved the marching band competitions when a half-dozen corps would perform. On a very hot, humid summer night a trumpet player passed out during a performance and her helmet smacked the granite curb. She was okay but it shook me up.

One morning, my brother and our friends were playing in the stands when a big white truck pulled on the field. Out of its cab poured about a half-dozen wild-looking men -- the "road crew" for the next night's professional wrestling match. The featured villain was Kurt Von Hess, a German military character. The road crew convinced us to set up folding chairs on the field in exchange for free tickets. Ken remembers helping a wrestler named Lil' Abner with chairs. Von Hess appeared and said without an accent, "let me show you boys how to carry chairs." I guess he wasn't so evil -- or German -- after all.

Weeds have invaded the outer lanes of the track and I hear the baseball stands behind home plate will be demolished (much needed). The wood pole holding up the lights in left field curves toward center field, like a sunflower reaching for the sun. The fields will be used for gym class and other student activities and the track will remain open to the public. When I visited recently, what looked like a junior high girls soccer game was being played.

Today's Hudson High Bluehawks are making their own memories at a terrific new athletic facility behind the nearby high school. The new synthetic turf field, rubberized track, and metal stands should be a source of pride for Hudson. If I played on a football field as good as the new one, maybe I wouldn't walk with this limp.

But there is something about the old field that is special, beyond my memories. It has been a bit worn and down on its luck at times, but it is resilient, idiosyncratic and full of character -- much like Hudson. Recently someone said admiringly of the field, "How perfect is the whole thing, anyway." I'd say pretty damn perfect.

The simplest way to describe the difference between journalists and historians is that one deals with the present and one with the past. At the same time, it is clear, when practiced at their highest levels, these professions share much, including rigorous sourcing and great storytelling. In fact, many of the most important writers of our time have been both journalists and historians. See David Halberstam, Bruce Catton, Ron Chernow, or Stanley Karnow.

At a time when facts apparently are not as stubborn as John Adams allegedly thought them, it's important to reflect on the intersection of journalism and history. It is sometimes said of presidents that history, with its long lens and benefit of informed reflection, eventually will render a just verdict on their performance. But what good does that do us today? History is being made as you read this and much of it is being influenced by the work of journalists, pseudo-journalists and even algorithms.

This occurred to me after reading Heather Ann Thompson's "Blood in the Water," the Pulitzer Prize-winning book on the bloody 1971 Attica prison uprising, and viewing "The Vietnam War," Ken Burns' and Lynn Novick's intelligent and remarkably watchable recounting of a failed American war.

Thompson's book was ten years in the making because New York State has done its best to throw a cloak of secrecy over the truth about Attica. Persistence, instincts and a little luck led Thompson to what really happened in the prison 46 years ago (read Thompson's introduction on how she uncovered the facts). The truth she reveals is devastating for nearly every government official involved with Attica.

At Attica, 1,300 prisoners took 39 corrections officers and prison employees hostage to protest what they believed to be substandard living conditions at the maximum security prison in rural western New York. A corrections officer was killed in the prisoner takeover, putting everyone on edge during the subsequent negotiations, including heavily armed State Troopers staging and stewing outside the prison walls.

When the talks broke down, Gov. Nelson Rockefeller ordered the Troopers, National Guardsmen, and corrections officers to retake the prison. Thirty-three prisoners and nine hostages (not including the guard killed in the prisoner riot) died in the haphazard and barbaric storming -- all from gunshot wounds. The only people with guns in the prison yard that day were with law enforcement.

Thompson is a renowned historian but her investigative skills shine here. The book is meticulously sourced and factually framed. She does not let precision get in the way of an unrelenting and engrossing narrative. She sympathizes with the prisoners but she lets facts guide her work.

You can't read this book and not be angered by how effectively Rockefeller and other state officials manipulated the investigation, the courts and the public to protect themselves. The prisoners were militants hell bent on revolution, they told the public. A state spokesman lied to the public after the storming, saying prisoners had cut the throats of hostages. Police and prosecutors hid evidence about subsequent torture and lack of medical treatment for the inmates. This dissembling and deception went on for decades.

Despite a medical examiner's report showing that the hostages were killed by gunfire, even residents of the village of Attica, saddened and shocked by the loss of husbands, brothers, and friends, continued to believe the state's story on the hostage deaths. A woman who lost two family members in the assault said, "the State Police did not kill those hostages."

Similarly, in "The Vietnam War," Episode 8, Burns and Novick focus on the 1970 shooting deaths of four unarmed students by Ohio National Guardsmen at Kent State University. The students, who were protesting the U.S. military "incursion" into Cambodia, were "the worst type of people that we harbor in America...worse than the 'Brown Shirts' and the communist elements," Ohio Gov. James Rhodes said the day before the shootings. After the shootings, President Nixon coldly said, "When dissent turns to violence, it invites tragedy." Again, the government's menacing characterizations of the protestors worked: a Gallup poll taken at the time found that most Americans thought the shootings were justified.

Thompson, Burns and Novick -- as journalists and historians -- have done a service for us. Researching and retelling the stories of two of the most divisive events in our country's history, they have helped build common understanding of the reality of who we are, what we have done and why. These hard lessons will make us better -- if we are willing to invest the time to learn them.

Of course, this led me to the present and attacks on journalists as enemies of the American people. Just last week, the president of the United States called on Congress to investigate journalists for reporting stories he did not like. That should send chills up your spine.

If you want to see and feel journalists and historians at work, read this book or watch this series. Americans should know what happened in Attica or at Kent State not only to render some form of justice for those who suffered or were wronged, but to learn that conspiracies and coverups do exist and can destroy peoples' lives if we are not vigilant.

Often, the most vigilant people in a democracy are journalists. They know and apply the lessons of history to their reporting today. They challenge those granted power and influence. This is how a democracy is supposed to work and why it is institutionalized in this nation's founding charter.

And by journalists I don't mean those involved in shouting matches on cable news, or looney conspiracists with a radio microphone or even propagandists with websites or printing presses. Unfortunately, many Americans do not separate these charlatans from real journalists, which is why we need a sustained media literacy effort, as wisely advocated by my friend Dick Martin.

So to answer my own question above, how do histories on Attica, Vietnam and other events help us today? By providing proof that those we trust with power are imperfect and that their words and actions need to be scrutinized, criticized and held to account. To me, this is the most patriotic action we can take.

The solar system didn’t disappoint Octavia, a grandmother and Uber driver.

Sarah and Emily on solar watch in Nashville.

“I underestimated it,” she said as she drove my family and I through Nashville on Monday, just hours after “totality” darkened the Music City’s skies. “I don’t mean to get religious on y'all, but I just looked up at it and said `this is God’s work.’

My wife, Barbara, and our two daughters, Sarah and Emily, made the trek to the eclipse’s “path of totality” in Nashville. We watched the celestial event unfold in a mown hay field at The Hermitage, the 420-acre plantation of the seventh president of the United States and $20 bill model, Andrew Jackson.

Several months ago when Emily suggested we make the trip to Nashville, I was as underwhelmed as Octavia had been. “Why can’t I watch it here, at home? It’s the same sun.” That began Emily’s tutelage of me on all things eclipse and why we should see the full solar blockade by the moon.

“Seeing a partial eclipse bears the same relation to seeing a total eclipse as kissing a man does to marrying him, or as flying in an airplane does to falling out of an airplane. Although the one experience precedes the other, it in no way prepares you for it.”

Emily, Barb and Annie were right. After experiencing the total blackout, I have to say it was worth it, even with the 2,100-mile round trip car drive from Hudson, NY, that Barb and I made with our dachshund, Charlie.

It seems like everyone has shared eclipse photos or written about it so I won’t make you read my eclipse -- much. Just before totality, the sunlight striking the ground had a strange muted golden hue. Cicadas began chirping, tricked into thinking it was evening. Then it got almost completely dark at 1:30 p.m. – on a clear August day! I couldn’t see Barb or my daughters standing next to me.

That minute or so when the black disk of the moon covered the sun was the most amazing natural thing I have ever seen. The angelic white light of the corona surrounding the moon was breathtaking. A purplish “night sky” appeared instantly, replete with stars and planets, including Venus.

People cheered. It was the sound of joy – pure joy.

After the moon moved on and the sunlight returned, strangers hugged, couples toasted with champagne, and everyone gushed about the show in the sky. One woman from Cincinnati sitting near us threw her arms over her head like she had just won a race and said, “Amazing, amazing, amazing!” She turned to another woman from Chicago, and said “It felt so important, so unifying for everyone, didn’t it?” The second woman agreed, adding, “it was the break we all needed from all the crazy stuff going on.”

I asked Sarah why she thought the eclipse had been such a big event in the U.S. -- Nashville even closed its schools for the day. “Social media,” she said. Then after a moment’s thought, she added, “I think people are just craving authentic communal events.”

By the way, how did I get such smart daughters? See below Emily's art from the eclipse.

I'll add a few thoughts. First, after all the hype, I suspect many people thought the eclipse would be a bust or just "meh." We’ve grown cynical about events that get big buildups – in other words, “if they have to sell it that hard, it’s probably not very good.” But it lived up to its billing – unlike snow storms, for instance, that forecasters overhype.

Second, it was amazing to have something in common with everyone in Nashville. The whole city stopped in its tracks. You weren’t afraid to ask anyone “Where’d you watch the eclipse.” It is the first time I can remember an event so positive and universal since the moon landing in 1969.

Finally, it was the perfect event for a time when mankind seems incapable of big things and is instead focused on inconsequential matters of self-interest. The natural world reminded us what amazing and inspiring looks like. Maybe Americans should rally around more natural events – free, accessible, awe-inspiring -- as a way of unifying us.

Octavia is all in on that idea. “Let me tell you, I would go anywhere – anywhere -- to see that again.”

By Emily Sheffer

In 1854, Philadelphia-based brothers William and Frederick Langenheim made seven daguerreotypes of the total eclipse of the sun - the first eclipse visible in North America since the invention of photography.

Under the light of the eclipse this past week, I recreated Langenheim’s images with cyanotype paper, a photographic process that uses sun-sensitive paper to make an exposure.

I printed inverted images of the original daguerreotypes to make paper negatives, and placed the paper negative on top of the cyanotype paper. The sun comes through the white parts of the paper negative, exposing the cyanotype paper beneath it to blue.

163 years later images made by the light of one eclipse are printed with the light of another.

click on images to enlarge

The progress of the process - from daguerrotype to paper negative to cyanotype.

I don’t go to the beach because my skin could accurately be described as white.

If Sherwin Williams named a paint color for me it would be “Atomic White.” I am as white as freshly sprinkled confectionary sugar on fried dough. When I take off my shirt at the beach, people put on a second pair of sunglasses. I wear four-digit SPF sun screen. My brother used to call me “Casper.

I am also a terrible swimmer. I failed beginners class at Oakdale Lake in Hudson several times. Desperate to pass, I would fake the crawl stroke in shallow water by putting my hands on the bottom of the lake to "swim." When we had young children and I was forced to go to the beach, I used to say that the best thing about going to the beach was leaving the beach.

The White Horse Tavern from Richard Russo's novels became the Iron Horse Bar in the movie, Nobody's Fool, some of which was filmed in Hudson.

So when I see lists this time of year for beach reading, I can feel my shoulders burning and my hydrophobia kicking in. I just can’t be expected to read a book while hiding under a hat, towel, umbrella, and lead vest. My preferred summer reading habitat is a dark, wood-paneled bar with cheap draught beer. For purposes of this blog post, let’s call my fantasy summer reading place the White Horse Tavern from the mind of novelist Richard Russo.

Now that we have the location, what are the best books to read in the summer? Baseball, of course. After all, it’s The Summer Game (see below). This summer I am reading Richard Sandomir’s The Pride of the Yankees: Lou Gehrig, Gary Cooper, and the Making of a Classic. It focuses on the 1942 biopic on the doomed Yankee great Gehrig. It’s a fascinating read filled with new details, particularly for Yankee and movie fans.

Reading it convinced me that I should do my own summer reading list focused on baseball. Why baseball? Just read a few pieces by the greatest baseball writer ever, Roger Angell of The New Yorker, who called baseball boxscores, "my favorite urban flower." Or consider the consummate Angell quote:

"Since baseball time is measured only in outs, all you have to do is succeed utterly; keep hitting, keep the rally alive, and you have defeated time. You remain forever young."

I am calling this my White Horse Tavern Summer Reading List for Baseball Fans. These books can be read on a corner barstool with the Yankees on the TV and enough of your money on the bar to get you through six or seven chapters.

12.

Can't Anybody Here Play this Game?, by Jimmy Breslin. A hilarious account of the worst team ever, the 1962 Mets: "The Mets opened their season on April 11 and closed on September 30. In this time, the players did enough things wrong to convince even casual observers that there has never been a team like them. From the start, the trouble with the Mets was the fact that they were not too good at playing baseball."

10.

Pitch by Pitch, by Bob Gibson and Lonnie Wheeler. Gibson goes through every pitch of his transcendant performance in Game One of the 1968 World Series in which he struck out 17 Tigers. Makes you feel like you are on the mound with Gibson.

8.

A False Spring, by Pat Jordan, the bittersweet memoir of a "can't miss" bonus baby who flamed out in the low minor leagues.

6.

Ball Four, by Jim Bouton. The Long Season made Ball Four possible. Bouton, a former Yankee power pitcher in the early 1960s, chronicles his 1969 season throwing knuckle balls for the lowly Seattle Pilots. Its honest revelations about what really happens in the clubhouse and after games made it one of the most controversial and influential sports books of all time.

11.

Shoeless Joe, by W.P. Kinsella. Yes, "if you will build it, he will come," is now cliche (with many replacing "he" with "they") but this quirky, lyrical and dreamlike novel is much better than the film it birthed, Field of Dreams.

9.

The Celebrant, by Eric Rolfe Greenberg, a fictionalization of the life of New York Giants star pitcher Christy Mathewson and the fictional story of a Jewish immigrant family of jewelers. The best novel about baseball.

7.

The Long Season, by Jim Brosnan. An authentic -- and unusual for its time -- diary of Brosnan's 1959 season with the St. Louis Cardinals and Cincinnati Reds.

5.

Bang the Drum Slowly, by Mark Harris. Bruce Pearson is a catcher for the fictional New York Mammoths, a lovable rube, and a dying man. This novel poigniantly chronicles his death across a baseball season.

4.

The Natural, by Bernard Malamud. The classic novel with Roy Hobbs, a bat named "Wonder Boy," and the fictional New York Knights. It magically mixes myth, legend and baseball.

2.

The Boys of Summer, by Roger Kahn. A history of the Brooklyn Dodgers by a sports writer who grew up near Ebbets Field and loved the great -- but hard-luck -- Dodgers to distraction. For casual baseball fans, this is the book to read.

3.

A Day in the Bleachers, by Arnold Hano. From the subway ride to the game to the other fans surrounding him, Hano provides a captivating time capsule of what it was like to sit in the cheap seats at the Polo Grounds. It's Game 1 of the 1954 World Series and Mays still makes the catch.

1.

The Summer Game, by Roger Angell. Any Angell books is a gem but this collection of pieces stuck with me because it focuses on baseball's glory days of Mays, Mantle, and Koufax, and for its witty and precise descriptions of what happens on the field: "Choo Choo Coleman, a catcher for the early Mets, “handles outside curve balls like a man fighting off bees.” (Sorry for picking on the Mets again).

That's it, my White Horse Tavern Summer Reading List for Baseball Fans. Look for it on Dozenbestbooks.com, a great site for bookaholics founded by PR legend John Onoda. Then head off to that dark bar.

Bill Lane flanked by GE colleagues Christian Flathman (left) and Jeff DeMarrais (right) with me seated. This is a 2001 send-off party for Jeff who had been named head of communications for our locomotive business in Erie, PA.

Sometimes the sight of a single physical thing can wrench free emotions that you thought you had tightened down.

This happened to me recently at the wake of my friend, Bill Lane. His family had placed his Green Beret from his service in Vietnam atop his coffin. When I saw it, my throat tightened and my eyes welled up as I remembered the many hours I had spent with this amazing man during our time at GE.

When I joined GE's public relations team, Bill already was a legendary speechwriter for Jack Welch. Bill helped Jack change the way CEOs communicated. No fancy boardroom talk or financial bullshit -- just plain, powerful, and realistic language without a hint of elitism. They retooled the workingman’s language for Wall Street and investors loved it.

Bill was an officer in the Green Berets during one of the toughest parts of the Vietnam War, the Tet Offensive. Seeing his Green Beret brought back memories of Bill telling me about his time in Vietnam, not to brag but to shine a spotlight on the idiocy of the mission or the leadership. His stories were always perfectly constructed, without fat, and hilarious and maddening at the same time. And Bill told them with red-hot passion. He’d reach a fiery crescendo and then his mood would improve instantly. He’d smile, shrug his shoulders and say, “Who gives a shit. Let’s get some coffee.”

When Jack Welch retired in 2001, GE put together a book of his 21 annual letters to share owners. Bill's introduction perfectly reflected Jack and the GE culture at the time:

"The letters were often inspiring and uplifting, but could be scary as well, to elements of the management population -- 'and the know who they are.' Startling denunciations and threats were regularly directed at bureaucracy and bureaucrats...from mere 'ridicule and removal,' to annihilation."

Bill and Jack’s writing process was elegantly simple: Jack would dictate the outline of a speech or a share owner letter. Bill would take notes or tape record Jack and then charge down the steps to his office to begin writing on a yellow legal pad with a black felt tip pen. When he was satisfied with what he’d written, Bill would hand the pages to an executive assistant for typing and then would prowl the halls until the document was proofed and sent to Jack.

At times, however, there were a few kinks. Bill and I got a new executive assistant when I joined GE. A few days after she started, Bill needed to get a speech to Jack quickly. He handed a stack of handwritten pages to the new assistant. As Bill hovered nearby, she began typing very slowly -- using only her index fingers.

“Uh oh,” was all Bill said. A few days later, we had a new assistant.

Another time a red-faced Bill came down the hall after meeting with Jack. Our new and very able assistant, Diane Laffitte, asked him how it went. Bill said, “He doesn’t like the photo I picked for the annual report. Says it makes him look bald.” Diane asked, “What did you say?” Bill responded, “I told him he IS fucking bald.”

He did not suppress his sense of humor when dealing with Jack. For example, Bill would listen to Jack give him feedback on a draft of the annual letter and then with a straight face ask, "Do you have any serious comments?"

Bill was direct, gruff, and politically conservative as they came. But he never held it against you if you disagreed nor did he take anything too seriously that was outside his control. Words, however, he could control.

He taught others to try to do the same in the famous “Pit” lecture hall at GE’s "Crotonville" learning center. He’d tell junior executives they had to up their communications game if they wanted to climb the GE ladder. “Forget PowerPoint, it’s a plague,” he’d bellow, urging more personal, less formal communications.

Mind you, several years after I arrived at GE in 1999, Bill was still using overhead transparencies. But the medium didn’t matter – his message of simplicity and clarity was burned into the brains of thousands of GE executives over the years.

I write about Bill because he was one of the most important people in my life. When I arrived at GE, I knew almost nothing about business or GE. Bill took the time to help. I’d drop a proposed statement on his desk and he’d return it quickly with big black edits that made my mundane prose passable.

The most fun was working with Bill rehearsing senior leaders for presentations at GE’s annual strategy meeting. In a dark and cavernous ballroom, Bill would stand at the back of the room, microphone in hand and give direct and blunt “voice of god” comments when the executive was done rehearsing:

“What was all that mumbo jumbo up front? Get rid of it.”

Bill could be quite intimidating until you figured out that he was a marshmallow underneath all the muscles; his warmth and caring for others – particularly his family -- could be as powerful as his writing. Our mutual friend Steve Ramsey, who led GE's environment and safety team, described Bill as loyal and generous and reminded me how much fun it was to be around Bill, and how he would pull your chain just to get a rise out of you.

Once he casually mentioned an op-ed he had written in 1988 for the Wall Street Journal about Vietnam veterans. After he left my office, I looked it up and discovered a war story he had not told. During a firefight during the Tet offensive, enemy fire kept him pinned down behind tombstones in a Buddhist cemetery for a day and a night.

Later, on our way to get coffee, I told him it was an amazing story.

His response was pure Bill (and very similar to a line from the op-ed): He rolled his eyes and said, “Don’t make me barf.”

As I write this, Barb and I are nearly done unpacking stuff collected over 30 years of marriage. A few days ago we left Connecticut and moved to Hudson, New York, my hometown, and close to Barb’s of Scotia. We have come home again - so poo on you Thomas Wolfe.

The move has been nearly 10 years in the making. For the past few years, we have been counting the months until the moving trucks would come, because, as Barb says, “There's beauty outside every window.”

“Bells Pond,” as we call it, is actually in Livingston, a rural town just outside Hudson. It is a 230-year-old caretaker’s cottage on the former estate of Robert Livingston, who helped draft the Declaration of Independence and administered the presidential oath of office to George Washington. The caretaker ran a grist mill on the trout-filled Taghkanic Creek, which runs behind our home.

Historic maker outside our home.

There never was any doubt that Barb and I would settle here when we first saw the place. It’s vibrancy restores us even though its age requires non-stop renovation. We found it after my parents passed away and I wanted to stay connected to Hudson and to my siblings, who are nearby. The clincher was that our kids loved the place and still do -- Christmas coziness, Thanksgiving feasts, relaxing in the screen porch, exploring the woods and creek, sipping coffees around the fireplace. When I see the joy in their eyes when they are here, I know we made the right choice.

The creek and nearby pond give life to trout, otters, beavers, snapping turtles, crayfish, sycamores and draw deer, fox, groundhogs, raccoons, coyotes, hawks and every type of bird you can imagine, including my doppelgänger, the bald eagle.

The mixture of life-long residents and New York City transplants makes for a rich cultural melting pot. What was once an “old man’s bar” recently reopened into a comfortable new tavern. Old men -- including me – now sit hip to hip with hipsters drinking craft beer.

The city’s main street is alive with tourists – tourists! -- seeking high-end antiques, great food, music, and art. When I left in the 1980s, you could shoot a cannon off on the street and not hit anyone. Hudson’s beauty was there even then, it was just hidden by years of neglect.

The cycling and running in Columbia County are some of the best in the world. Last year, I cycled the full length of every county highway, some of which I helped build during college as a part of a summer road crew. The hiking is spectacular, and my wife and children have discovered an amazing waterfall near our home that I never knew existed.

I have been everywhere in the world and no place is as pretty in summer as this river valley. It won the atmospheric, topographical and celestial lotteries, the payoff being buttery sunrises and sunsets that inspired a school of art. Then there was the defunct and aptly named Sunset Drive-In, where the sun set behind the movie screen, blinding you at the start of the first show.

Every block, every inch of sidewalk, every stoop are familiar and comforting to me, not just for what they are but what they were. Each creates reverie and remembrance, some good and some painful. I find that no other place.

The newspaper where I met Barb. It is now the site of a home decor store.

The courthouse park where we played. 12534. TA8. Rocky’s rectangular pizzas. Fatso’s picnic grove. The newsroom where I flirted with my future wife. “Chestnut Hill” at the middle school where I got my ass kicked in a playground brawl. The blue-collar bar where we ordered boilermakers like the regulars and drunkenly crooned “Barroom Buddies” to the jukebox. The high school football field where I tore up my knee. That 1970s Noecker Buick-Pontiac radio jingle that is caged in my brain.

Hudson is not idyllic. There is poverty, drugs, and a struggling but improving school district. Affordable housing seems to be in short supply. Thankfully, there are many smart and good people working to make it better.

So Hudson is home. I never expected to say that again when I left 30 years ago. Today, this old city makes me feel calm and peaceful but also young and adventurous. I’ll take it.